Poppies in Winter
by PennyWoods
Summary: When Poppy Lewis is kidnapped by the Napoleon of Crime, she is hurled into a dangerous game. She is threatened with death to help her kidnapper ensnare the great Sherlock Holmes. But Poppy gets clever. Escaping death once, she is forced to hide until it is safe again. Will she gain the upper hand over the man who is hunting her down? Or will she simply become another victim?
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER**

I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Watson, or Jim Moriarty. These characters belong to BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

This fanfiction is a wonderful mix of the Sherlock Holmes novels and a dash of the BBC series. I am mainly basing this off the novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, but the characters' appearances are the same as in the BBC series. Sherlock's character will mainly be rooted from the novels, as will most other characters with the exception of Jim Moriarty. I hope you enjoy!

~ Set in Modern Day London ~

Chapter One - The Napoleon of Crime

It was dreary and cold, as most London winter days are. I was wrapped in a crimson pea-coat and my thickest grey scarf. My mom had insisted I visit a friend of the family's, and in doing so she demanded I bundle up.

As I walked on the sidewalk, I noted the house numbers until I saw the one mom had mentioned. I knocked on the door and waited. The wind nipped spitefully at my exposed ears and nose.

The door soon swung open to reveal a young, blond woman. Her face was plain and regular enough, but a rare kindness shone from her deep hazel eyes that made her seem the prettiest of them all. A grinning toddler peeked out from behind the woman's legs.

"Poppy! How nice of you to drop by! Did your mom send you?" she said. I nodded. She smiled, then stepped aside to reveal a room in the distance cluttered with boxes. "The house is hardly fit for visitors; we've still got a roomful of boxes to unpack. But don't let that stop you. Oh, this is Laura." She motioned to the golden-haired child behind her. "I'm babysitting her while my sister goes Christmas shopping. Well, come in, come in! You're going to catch cold."

I stepped inside at her beckoning. The foyer smelt of hickory chips and rosemary, with a slight hint of tea - a pleasant combination. Laura giggled, her lovely blue eyes shining. She tugged at her aunt's floral-print shirt.

"Not now, Laura. Why don't you go and play with your toys?" The little girl turned and disappeared down a hallway.

"John's out making a house call," she explained as I shook off my boots, "So it's just us girls. Tea?"

"Sure, thanks, Mary," I said, nodding. She waited until I had handed her my coat and scarf before disappearing into the kitchen.

A timer rang in the distance and a cabinet door opened. I stood awkwardly in the foyer until Mary called out, "Make yourself at home, love!"

I scooted into the sitting room- the room I saw earlier- with stockinged feet. The walls were bare; the room itself had a small sofa, a coffee table, and an armchair. I sat myself down on one end of the sofa and eyed a legal pad that laid on the coffee table. The letterhead read Dr. John Watson, MD. Scrawled across the top were the words, 'The Sign of Four'. I recognized John's handwriting- from when he would write notes on my dad's ever-declining health.

Mary was still bustling about the kitchen, so I gingerly picked up the legal pad and scanned the nearly illegible handwriting. I was so engrossed in her husband's writing that I didn't notice she had entered the room with two steaming cups of tea.

"You seem fascinated." I jumped and quickly set the legal pad down, my face flushing pink.

"What are they?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

"John has a detective friend he likes to assist from time to time. The cases are so intriguing John feels he must chronicle them," she said.

"I guess I'm intruding then," I said, giving an apologetic smile. She simply laughed.

"Oh, don't worry about it. John was intending on publishing it soon. I guess you got a sneak peek, eh? Coffee?" I gratefully accepted a warm mug from her. One of the greatest things about Mary was that, she knew how to make a bloody good cup of British tea, even if she was raised in Canada.

"Is John's friend Sherlock Holmes?" I ventured. "I mean, that's what I'm assuming it's about."

Mary nodded, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. With a slight blush to her cheeks, she explained, "'The Sign of Four' is what John decided to call that particular case of Mr. Holmes. Of course, Sherlock isn't overly keen of John's attempts to publish his cases. The case itself was quite horrible, but it's where I met John, so I have mixed feelings about it.."

"That wasn't even a year ago!" I exclaimed. "But what was it about? No one ever tells me anything about it," I said, sipping my tea. The liquid warmth spread down my throat and settled pleasantly in my stomach. Tea calmed me like little else.

"My inheritance was questionable, and certain people wouldn't stop at anything to get it." She had a faraway look in her eyes.

She shook her head, as if snapping out of it. She continued, "Anyways, why don't you just take the manuscript? It can hardly be called one, though, as John's writing is practically scribbles. He hasn't set up the wireless router or computer yet." Mary took the legal pad and handed it to me.

I took it from her hesitantly. "Are you sure John won't mind?"

Mary dismissed my hesitation with a wave of her hand. She took a drink of her coffee and said, "'Course not! In fact, he'll be thrilled to know someone takes an interest in it. He's always complaining about how no one would understand Holmes the way he does. On the other hand, Holmes thinks John's previous story, 'A Study in Scarlet', has too many unnecessary details. I'll go get that one. Maybe you could help. You know, because you work for the Guardian."

She disappeared down the hall. I heard a door open and Laura's voice cried, "Aunt Mary, my red engine isn't working!"

"It's probably the batteries, dear. Let me have a quick look," Mary's quiet voice soothed.

Sipping my tea, I glanced leisurely out the window behind the sofa as I waited for Mary. I looked out the window, and saw a black car, Strange. I remember seeing the car on my way in. Maybe they were the neighbours.

I noticed the tinted windows were cracked slightly. I walked closer to the window, and noticed a man with sunglasses. At first, I thought he was watching the house but I realized he was watching me. I was about to call this to Mary's attention when he rolled the windows up and the car jumped to life. It drove off just as Mary entered the room. I turned to her and thought nothing more of the car and the staring man.

"Here you go," she said, smiling. "'A Study in Scarlet'. Now, tell me how your mom is and your poor old dad."

I stayed chatting with Mary until it was nearly dinner time. She begged me to stay and have dinner with her and John, but I told her Mum was expecting me home. I said my farewells and departed with a pamphlet and a legal pad full of intriguing words. When I got home, I excused myself from dinner, saying I wasn't hungry.

Within three hours, I had devoured John's stories. It was hard to believe they were true because they scared the living bejeezus out of me. But Mary had assured me they were nothing but the truth.

After throwing on some pajamas, I burrowed beneath my covers and contemplated the mysteries. Based on what Dr. Watson had said about the man, Sherlock Holmes was a bit self-centered, egoistic, kind in his own way, and all together brilliant. I yearned to meet him. Turning over, I turned of my lamp, and slept. I dreamt about him.

The next morning I told Mum that I had forgotten something at the Watsons'. Off I popped to inquire if I could indeed visit Dr. Watson's friend. Based on the manuscripts I had been given, Sherlock Holmes seemed to me the most brilliant and fascinating of men. Who would not want to meet such a figure?

As I walked, my stomach filled with butterflies. What would Sherlock be like? Would he be just like what John described him to be? Something entirely different? Cordial, quiet, loud, funny, obnoxious, admirable? What would he sound like? It was a silly question, but it was a question nonetheless. Deep, baritone, tenor, high? Would his words be long and drawn out or short and quick? Or somewhere in between? Would he have blonde, ginger, or brown hair? What about his eyes? All of these questions bubbled giddily inside of me.

I couldn't believe I was daydreaming about a man who I had only read about. But the way he was portrayed was so enigmatic. He seemed to be just as complicated as the mysteries he solved with such ease and precision. One could not help but wonder what a man like him was truly like.

Just as I came in view of the Watsons' house, a rough hand shot out of an alleyway and yanked me into the shadows. My shoulder was nearly dislocated from the initial impact. I yelped as a man grabbed my waist. Using my fingernails I scratched at his hands and attempted to kick his legs with my heels. I landed a successful blow to his knee, producing a grunt of pain. But he did not release his hold. Instead, he began dragging me backwards farther down the alley. I opened my lips and screamed as loud as I could. Two men in burgundy jumpers appeared at the head of the alley and I thought I was to be saved. However, my hope diminished when the men produced rope and cloth from their pockets.

I screamed again, but the new arrivals were on me in a second. One grabbed my wrists while the other gagged me. The man holding my waist stopped so as to make his accomplices' jobs easier. I kicked and twisted my body, trying to harm either of the men and make it harder. I wasn't going down without a fight. My primal instinct to survive overrode the panic swelling like a wave in my chest. I pushed down the fear and struggled as much as the rope would allow.

The man resumed dragging me backwards, although with difficulty because of my effort to escape. The other two men ran out of my range of vision and I heard the sound of heavy wood being scraped across concrete.

Just then, a figure appeared at the head of the alley. It was Dr. John Watson. With pleading eyes and muffled words, I begged him to help me. The doctor acted quickly, pulling a ready pistol from the waistband of his trousers. He had been in the war in Afghanistan and was always ready. The men dragging me stopped.

"Let. Her. Go," John demanded, raising his pistol. Was I not lucky to have a retired army doctor as an old friend? He had once told me that although he was a doctor in the war, he had had bad days and admittedly used his gun. At that moment, I was very glad of that fact.

I felt hands leave my waist and a rough shove on my back. I staggered forwards, not having my arms to balance me. John gently grabbed my arm and pulled me close to him.

"It's alright, Poppy," he soothed, neither his eyes nor his gun leaving my captor. "You're safe now."

Chills suddenly danced across my spine and arms. My legs wobbled as if made of gelatin and my heart palpitated furiously. John placed his free arm across my shoulders which helped to still the shivering racking my body.

My previous captor eyed the gun with rat-like eyes and slowly raised his hands in the air. But a sudden smirk flew to his lips. I suddenly remembered his accomplices. A shot rang out behind the man facing us and John doubled over. Behind my gag, I gasped, hot tears springing to my eyes. Crimson blood stained the ground below our feet as John attempted to straighten. His arm never left my shoulders but his gun dropped from his fingers. Using his newly freed hand, he gripped the wound.

The rat-eyed man retained his smirk as I looked from him to John and back again. If my speech wasn't restricted I would have screamed until my voice gave out. Surely someone had heard the gunshot. John had apparently heard my screams, so why couldn't a passerby notice a struggle in the shadowed alley?

With my vision blurred by tears, I didn't realize until it was too late that the men in burgundy jumpers had approached from the side and grabbed me. The doctor grunted and his grip on my shoulder tightened. Shallow gasps emitted from his parted lips; his body heaved as he tried to protect me.

One of the men punched John in the stomach while the other yanked me away from him. My cries were muffled as I was dragged back towards the rat-eyed man. John continued to receive cruel blows until he crumpled to the ground, surrounded by a pool of his own blood.

The pain of seeing my friend so wounded and possibly dead was too much for me. My heart felt as if it was going to explode and I felt closed in at all sides as if the world was smothering me.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins as. I lashed out with my legs and booted feet, kicking my assailant. He snarled like a feral dog and hoisted me up on his broad shoulders as if I weighed no more than a bag of autumn leaves.

In one last desperate attempt to free myself, I buried my chin into his shoulder blade and pressed down. With a terrible thrust, he threw me down into some sort of wooden crate. I landed on my side with a sickening crunch. The adrenaline staunched the pain, allowing me to kick furiously at the walls of my wooden prison.

A slatted wooden lid clamped down on the top of the crate and complete darkness surrounded me. I kicked and squirmed for what seemed like an hour when in reality it was only a couple of minutes. Finally, extremely tired and frustrated, I brought my bound wrists up to my mouth and pulled the gag down slightly.

"Let me out!" I screamed. My voice was hoarse, but I continued my cries. "Let me out! You have no right to do this, you know! Let me out!"

The crate suddenly flipped on its side; I tumbled about and landed awkwardly on my head. Ow. I still would not stop my shouting.

"Let me out right-" I was cut off as the large crate was flipped once more. This time, I slammed against the side. Wincing, I tried again, "Let me out!"

"Shut-up," a voice growled against the wood. "If I hadn't been instructed to keep you awake... If you keep on screamin', I will drug you. So shut up."

I wouldn't stop. I kept on shouting and screaming. If there was any chance of someone hearing me, I would continue to cry out.

The crate's lid popped open and a rag was dropped inside. Even though the crate was large, I barely had enough room to lay down so as it happened, the rag landed very close to to my face.

As the lid closed above me, I realized with horror that the rag had been soaked in chloroform. A sickly sweet smell wafted upwards from the rag, wrapping my head in a thick fog. After only a few seconds, I felt as if I was fading. My hearing became distorted and it became harder to breathe properly. Oh, no...

I woke up wearily, feeling sluggish. It took several minutes for my vision to clear and my head to stop pounding. The headache eventually subsided to a dull throbbing. I began to inspect my situation.

Soft cloth restricted movement of my lower torso. Propping myself up on an elbow, I lifted my blood-speckled shirt to see that my ribs had been bandaged. Bile filled my throat as I realized the blood sprayed across my clothes belonged to Dr. Watson.

My left foot was bandaged too. I must have sprained it when trying to escape. My right arm was in a sling and held closely to my chest by a strip of snow white bandaging. Wincing, I used my one good arm to sit up.

I lay on a stiff cot in a concrete room. There were no windows, which caused my ever-present claustrophobia to rise. But I quickly pushed my fear down and focused on any means of escape. The only furniture in the room was the cot I sat on. A narrow wooden door was embedded in the featureless grey wall directly opposite the cot, complete with a deadbolt. Three bare bulbs, barely alive, swung from the high ceiling

I was trapped. Plain and simple.

Perhaps I was in some kind of basement, or a storage room for a warehouse. I didn't know. My breath hitched as I realized I was trapped in a windowless room, with no ways out. The claustrophobia suddenly consumed my effort to be brave with a single, terrifying bite.

It seemed as if the walls were crushing me, leaving little room for air. When I had been in the crate, adrenaline had overridden the phobia. I now wished for that adrenaline rush; I was on the verge of hyperventilating. Realistically, I knew I had plenty of air around me, but psychologically I was suffocating.

Just as I was bracing myself to stand, the door cracked open with a click. Heavily, I sat back down and stared at the door. My breathing evened out now that there was a chance for escape.

"Hello?" an annoyingly playful voice called out. A man's head popped into the room; his body followed. "Good afternoon," he said with a slight Scottish accent. "Sleep well?"

"What do you want from me?" I blurted. I had planned to sound strong but my voice came out in a whisper.

The man cracked a half smile and put his hand to his ear. "What was that?"

I furrowed my brows and repeated myself, louder this time. My throat was really parched. "What do you want from me?"

My captor's deep brown, almost black eyes stared straight into my own with such intensity I fought not to look away. "Three broken ribs, a broken humerus, and a severely sprained ankle," he rattled off, ignoring my demand. "Sorry about that."

"What?" My frown deepened towards this man dressed in an expensive-looking suit.

His lower lip protruded as he faked a pouting look. "My men weren't supposed to hurt you but you did put up such a fight. Honestly, I wasn't expecting that from you. In all the months I've been watching you-"

"You what?" I interrupted.

"Well, I wasn't personally watching you. One of my hired men was. He wanted me to let you know that you really should close your blinds when dressing. He had to admit, you weren't a let-down"

I scooted back, repulsed and blushed in embarrassment. "Who are you?" I demanded as harshly as I could.

With a little wave, he said, "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

"Why am I here? What do you want with me? And why in the world did you bandage me up? You kidnapped me for goodness' sake."

"Hm, grumpy much?" he said. "I don't really mind if you call me Jim or Moriarty or both. But Sherlock and Friends call me Moriarty. Or the Napoleon of Crime." He swung his arms about dramatically as if it was a title to be proud of.

"Sherlock?" I repeated. "The Sherlock Holmes?"

Moriarty smiled. "That's right. You've been reading Johnny's stories, haven't you? Sherlock is wonderful, is he not? The man is bloody brilliant!"

"What do you have to do with him?"

"Everything. I pride myself in being the man responsible for his future demise. And you are going to help me," he said cheerily.

I blinked. Had I heard correctly?

"You want me to help you...kill Sherlock Holmes?"

"I would have asked, but I wasn't sure you'd come," Moriarty explained. "Plus, it's much more fun to surprise people. So, surprise!"

This man was mad. Absolutely mad.

"I'm not going to help you," I stated firmly. Moriarty's smile dipped slightly at the corners. I mustered my courage and said, "Sherlock Holmes is a wonderful man who purges this world from people like you. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he's coming here right now. John probably told him all about what happen. He's the best and only consulting detective in the world so you had better watch what you do. He's the Dumbledore to your Voldemort."

"First of all, John's dead." Moriarty's tone was sickeningly gleeful, yet it had an unamused edge to it. My heart sunk at his words, my hope once again dwindled. "Secondly," he continued, "you've never met Sherlock in your life. You are basing your opinions of him from poorly written literature. How do you know that John wasn't lying? Sherlock could be a disreputable character for all you know. But I do know because I know him."

I faltered. "I still believe he will find you out," I said a bit weakly. "And I won't help you."

Moriarty pulled a cube from his suit pocket. "Do you know what this is? It's a button." He popped off the top of the cube to reveal a spherical blue button. "There is a bomb between your bandages. Not a large one, just one big enough to blow a couple limbs off." My heart dropped to my stomach. " That's really the only reason I had your bones set. This button controls those bombs. Would you like me to show you how it works?"

He hovered his finger dangerously close to the button.

"No!" I cried as he prepared to push it. Despite moral obligations and the desire to be brave, no one wants their arm or leg blown off.

A smile played on his thin lips as he returned the button back to his pocket. An unsaid message passed between us in startling clarity: obey or be blown up.

"Now," Moriarty said, sauntering towards the cot, "You're probably wondering why I need you to help me capture Sherlock Holmes. Why not do it myself, hmm?" I kept my face blank.

"You see, you and John already possessed a considerable amount of trust towards one another. Thus, you automatically gain the trust of Sherlock. Well, almost- the man never trusts anyone fully. Admirable skill, I say. I, on the other hand, cause him to pull out his gun every time we meet. It would be much easier for you persuade him than it would be for me."

"Why can't you get one of your 'men' to kill him off? Or couldn't you hire some girl to persuade him?" I muttered bitterly. The mere idea of betrayal sat sourly in my stomach.

Moriarty shrugged. "Sure I could. But how many years have you known John Watson? Five, ten years? It will be quicker this way. And besides, I don't like to get my hands dirty."

His logic jumbled up my train of thought. I still didn't understand why I was "the chosen one". A sickening dread settled in my chest: it was my life, or Sherlock's.

I didn't want to be responsible for Sherlock Holmes' ultimate destruction. Moriarty was right when he had said I never met him and I was basing my opinions about him based on John's manuscripts. But I did know one thing: whether he was as John depicted or not, Sherlock Holmes had to be a beam of golden light in a world full of unspeakable crimes and sins.

Perhaps I could warn Sherlock when I had to confront him. Warn him of Moriarty's plot. If he was as clever as John and Moriarty made him out to be, he would figure it out in a few moments of my being in his presence.

Moriarty spun on his heel and walked carelessly to the door. Before he could disappear, I asked, "Where am I exactly?"

Ignoring my question, he cocked an eyebrow at me "Hungry? Supper will be about shortly. See you later!"

With a curious grin he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him. I listened for a moment to see if he would lock the door but I heard nothing but the sound of his retreating footsteps. So, in actuality, I wasn't entirely trapped. That thought calmed my palpitating heart somewhat and suppressed my claustrophobia.

As I carefully stretched back on the cot, I was acutely aware of the bombs hidden somewhere amongst my bandages. I had no choice but to help Moriarty, although I still couldn't understand why he would want me. There were probably plenty of people the Watsons were associated and trusted more than me.

So as I situated myself to provide the most relief from the aching of my body, I prayed fervently for a viable solution. I didn't want to alert Moriarty of my intentions when I needed to keep Holmes alive. John might not be dead. And obviously...

Why me?


	2. Chapter 2

**- This particular chapter has not been edited yet so the content is subject to change slightly - **

**DISCLAIMER**

I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Watson, Mrs. Hudson, or Jim Moriarty. These characters belong to BBC (in part) and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Chapter Two - Mr. Sherlock Holmes**

I tried to count the seconds, thinking the monotonous task would distract me from the sense of terror settling over me. Once I reached 1,200 I lost interest. I was far from weary so my eyes refused to close. My heart jumped like a caged animal in my chest when my thoughts trailed to my situation.

Frightened and with bombs strapped to my person, I could hardly go against Moriarty. But the thought of beguiling Sherlock Holmes was almost too much to bear. Not only because of the hurt I might cause him but because he would know my true cause in an instant. I believed whole-heartedly that Sherlock would see through whatever lie Moriarty had me tell. Then I would probably arrested for being an accessory in an attempted murder. It was a selfish thought but one my terrified brain allowed.

Was that why Moriarty had kidnapped me? Because he wanted to lead someone into death or imprisonment for sick entertainment? He was crazy, that much I knew. In stories and on the Telly, those were always the most dangerous kind of criminal.

In fact, I felt as if I was living in a fictional story. Was this really happening to me? You go about life thinking you'll carry on day after day in the same old fashion, the thought of kidnapping, assault, or even death doesn't cross your mind. Now faced with such it was truly horrid to dwell on. No one wants to die. The few who will willing sacrifice themselves for a just moral cause possessed more bravery than I ever wished to have.

Bored of counting and scared of contemplating, I decided to try and open the door. True, there was a metal plate where the doorknob should be. Moriarty had failed to lock it, however, so there must be some way to get out.

As I cautiously rose from the cot, a sharp pain erupted in my side. I doubled over, wincing. A heavy breath or two later I was limping to the door, careful not to bear down on the bombed foot or twist my injured torso in the wrong direction.

I hesitantly pushed on the door with my uninjured hand. It didn't budge. Well, of course it didn't. Moriarty had swung the door outwards. Unless I had a crowbar or extremely hard fingernails, I wasn't going to be able to open the barrier to my freedom.

An unchecked tear slithered down my cheeks where it was absorbed into the neckline of my blood-stained shirt. I turned about slowly and returned to the cot. I was sure, if left here long enough, I would go mad from the emptiness and hopelessness of that cold stone room.

The door opened with a groan and I hurriedly dashed away the tears. Even though I felt like a frightened child I certainly wasn't going to allow my captor to see me as such.

Instead of Moriarty, an elderly man stepped into the room. He wore wrinkled beige trousers and a sweater vest of faded red yarn. By the way he looked around with shifty grey eyes, I knew he wasn't the sweet old man some would think him to be. He carried a dinner tray piled high with my favorite meal: angel hair spaghetti, slices of apple, and a tall glass of lemonade. I frowned at the obvious display set to gain my trust. And the fact Moriarty even knew what my favorite meal was.

_"Stalker,"_ I thought with disgust.

The man hobbled forwards and said, "'Ere's your supper, Miss Lewis."

"Miss Lewis'?" I questioned. "Did Moriarty tell you to say that?"

He shook his head sadly and and placed the tray at the end of the cot. "If I were you, I'd learn to stop sayin' his name. Who knows when it'll slip out in the great big world and-" The man slipped his knobby finger across a sagging throat.

I glared at him, trying desperately to retain my front of bravery. The man shuffled out of the room and I was left alone with my supper.

As I looked down at the appetizing meal, I came to a conclusion: it was most likely drugged. What kind of kidnapper actually feeds their prisoners except to drug them? No doubt some mind-dulling narcotic had been slipped into the lemonade or red sauce. I lifted the tray onto the floor. No way was I falling for that trick.

My stomach growled in protest. If it was indeed suppertime, I had been unconscious an entire day. That meant I hadn't eaten breakfast or dinner. But I ignored my hunger and studied my bandages instead.

If it wasn't for the fact I had broken bones, I would rip the strips of cloth off along with the bombs and fling them at Moriarty the next time he stepped through the door.

With my lips pursed, I situated myself on the cot so that my back was propped against the wall and I could watch the door. It wasn't but an hour later when the door opened and Moriarty returned.

He cast a sad glance at the uneaten food and whined, "Poppy, I'm hurt. I made that especially for you."

"No you didn't," I bit back, converting my fear into anger and bitterness for the time.

"You're right - I lied," Moriarty chuckled. "Don't worry, it isn't drugged, if that's what you're thinking."

I made no move to retrieve the food. "Am I going to have to lie to Sherlock?" I asked with a bitter undertone.

Moriarty clapped his hands and said, "Give the girl a prize!" He came to stand at the foot of the cot. "Would you like to hear your lie?"

"Because he's going to see right through it," I said as if finishing my sentence.

He didn't reply to that statement. Instead he took hold of my sprained ankle and twisted it viciously. I cried out as burning pain clawed up my leg. Moriarty dropped my bandaged foot and smiled almost cheerily.

"Sherlock won't see through it because you are going to make it believable," he said. Despite his grin, his words were threatening.

I gasped as I tried to banish the shock. Looking down, I saw my one good hand clutching at the cot frame until my knuckles were white. Tears quivered at the edge of my eyes.

"Here's your lie," Moriarty continued. "You have just returned from University to find your parents dead in their home. A note left on the kitchen table from your mother makes you think they committed suicide. But you see strange marks on their faces like bruises. There are signs of struggle around the house. I hope you're remembering this. I expect you to rehearse it and I won't be telling you again."

Whispers of pain still lingered in my leg. I managed a nod and tried to listen and remember.

"You think they have been murdered but you have no way of proving it or finding the murderer. The police believe it was a suicide but you know differently. So, you are referenced to Sherlock Holmes by Mrs. Watson. If you are asked about John Watson's death, you are to act as if you know nothing about it. Just as you reach his apartment, you receive a call on your mobile. The voice on the other line tells you to meet at the EMD cinema on Hoe Street, Walthamstow, saying he had news on your parents' deaths. Questions?"

"W-won't Sherlock want to see the bodies of my supposed parents?" I stammered.

Moriarty grinned wickedly and my heart sunk. "We have to make this as believable as possible. Sherlock is brilliant. If he suspects the bodies found in the house aren't your parents he'll do a DNA test."

"You _can't_..." I whispered, my eyes wide in horror. My stomach twisted until I felt the bile rising once more.

"But I can!" he exclaimed. He smiled almost piteously, but I knew he was faking. He withdrew a mobile from his suit pocket and held it out to me. "Is there anything you'd like to tell them before they're dead?"

I was shaking uncontrollably at that point. The reality of the situation crushed my lungs until my breath came shallow and rapid. I reached out to take the mobile, but Moriarty jerked it away just as my fingers brushed the plastic.

He returned the mobile to his pocket and turned towards the door. "Kidding!" he said with a sing-song voice. "The number could be tracked. Make sure you rehearse your lines. And don't make me regret not blowing you up. Ta-ta!"

The door closed with a horrible bang. My hand was suspended in the air long after Moriarty was gone. The shock of what was going to happen touched me so deeply that I sat on that cot in silence for literally hours.

He was going to murder my parents. My loving Mum and Dad. I would never see them again. Well, I would but only at a crime scene with Sherlock by my side. The last thing I told them was a lie; that I had forgotten something at the Watsons'. Just so I could avoid dinner. I didn't even say 'I love you'. They would die without knowing how much I loved and appreciated them.

The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that it was my fault they were about to be murdered. I told a lie to get away. If I had just stayed home, Moriarty's men wouldn't have touched me and Dr. Watson might still be alive. My parents would still have a chance to live; to see me married off; to hold my kids on their knees. It was all my fault.

I curled into a fetal position, ignoring the protest of my broken ribs. Only then did I allow the tears to flow. Who cared if Moriarty saw me in that state? That's what I really was inside: a broken, scared child. I could no longer mask my feeling with bitterness. It was all too much.

Three days passed and I received not a word from Moriarty. I was glad to not see wicked gleam in his nearly-black eyes or the crazed grin he wore. My taut nerves relaxed slightly as I fell into a routine although the thought of my parents murder was always in the back of my mind.

Every morning when I woke up, a man would arrive to escort me to a bathroom down the hall. There I would be given the necessary toiletries to take a shower. I would carefully shed the bandages and discovered the palm-sized bombs pressed against my skin. After my shower, I would dress in the clothes waiting for me outside the door. Usually they were plain pajamas. The man would follow me back to my prison where he would reapply the bandages and bombs to my injuries.

I was then left to myself for what seemed like five hours or more. I amused myself with happy family memories and imaginings of what the great Sherlock Holmes would be like when I met him. To keep myself from slowly falling into depression, I requested books. Not surprisingly, this request was ignored.

My dinner was brought to me after that long wait by the little old man. I was not given breakfast which made me all the hungrier for dinner and supper. I suppose that was how Moriarty made sure I ate. If starving wasn't such a present and real danger, I would have denied all food offered to me just to irk my captor. But I'm sure he would have found a way to force feed me. No doubt he wanted my strength to be kept up.

The time after dinner was spent in the same way: just me and my mind. Supper was much later and after that meal, the elderly man flipped some hidden switch. I was drenched in complete and smothering darkness. I learned to calm myself however, by humming an old lullaby my Mum used to sing me.

So my days passed in this fashion until Moriarty finally appeared. That morning I had asked my escort how many days I had been in that room to which he answered, "Two weeks." It hadn't seemed that long of a time. Perhaps because I was so occupied with keeping myself calm and sane that the days had blurred together.

"Miss me?" he said, popping into the room.

I frowned at him and thought about turning away. "My ankle is better," I stated in a monotone fashion. "And I think my other injuries are healed as well."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "So? Just tell Sherlock you had a football accident. Now, recite your story to me."

I knew he wasn't going to allow me to take the bandages off.

In those two weeks I had practiced the lie I was to tell Sherlock Holmes. I only did this because I feared the consequences if I failed to make it sound believable.

Pushing down my disgust, I began my narrative. When it came to the part about my parents having been found dead, I had no need to fake my tears. I cried every time I rehearsed it.

"Wonderful!" Moriarty cried happily. I brushed the tears away and glared. "You can't entirely call it a lie because it is true."

"A-are they-" I began, my resolve faltering.

"D-dead?" he mocked, sticking his bottom lip out. "Yes they are. The police were notified yesterday and they have already labeled your house as a crime scene. Now, come along. You have an appointment with the world's only consulting detective."

My breath caught in my throat and for a moment, I couldn't breathe properly. Moriarty ignored me and walked out of the room. He left the door open, expecting me to follow him. For a split second I considered sitting down and refusing to go but I knew I could loose several limbs and maybe my heart by explosion.

I inhaled and exhaled deeply several times before following Moriarty. Thankfully, I had been given clothes instead of pajamas after my shower.

Moriarty walked briskly down the hall until he came to a fork. I approached his side weakly, my mind numbed by the though of my dead parents.

He slipped an arm round my shoulders and said, "Which way, hm?"

I didn't even try to shrug him off. What was the point? "It's your building," I muttered.

"True. Oh! I forgot - I have another surprise for you."

I looked blankly at the two hallways before us. "What?" I spoke with absolutely no emotion. My heart was shattered; there was no room for emotion.

A slightly damp cloth was suddenly pressed against my mouth and nose. A muffled cry escaped from my lips as Moriarty calmly held me still. The chloroform worked almost instantly. My knees grew weak and I felt myself falling.

Moriarty's voice sounded far away when he spoke: "Surprise! I can't have you know where you're staying. What if you accidentally tell Sherlock? That would be the end of me. Don't worry, you'll be awake by the time we get there."

For the second time, I slipped into a drug-induced sleep. Instead of the blackness being empty, it was filled with pain. Horrible, heart-wrenching pain and the cries of my dying parents.

"Poppy! Wake up!" sang a too-happy voice.

I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes.

A foot bared down on my still-sensitive arm in the sling. I yelped and yanked my arm away, now fully awake.

Moriarty's face was inches from mine. He wore one of his insane grins and his eyes glittered. "Seriously, Poppy. Time to get up. We're here! Or rather, you will be after you walk a bit. Here's a coat-" he straightened and handed me a faux white fur coat and a pair of mittens, "-and some mittens. It's snowing. We don't want you to catch cold, now do we?" The last sentence was spoken in a taunting tone as if he would like nothing better than for me to come down with a cold.

I realized we were in a small, dimly-lit room. The wallpaper was peeling in large yellowed strips. The musty stench of the place made me curl up my nose.

Taking the coat and mittens, I staggered from the slightly damp carpeted floor. I slid off the arm sling and put on the coat and mittens. A pair of leather boots had already been placed on my feet while I slept. One boot bulged slightly due to the bandages. After I was fully dressed, I looked at Moriarty and glared as angrily as I could. I was quite pissed off at the trick he had pulled back at the place of my captivity.

"Now," Moriarty said, ignoring my look, "up the stairs you go. And don't try anything because I have people watching. Also, if you try to tell Sherlock about any of this, I have a man who's been ordered to shoot at your..._injuries_. Up you go. Exit the building and then take a left. You'll be on Baker Street. There's a café called _Speedy's_. Beside it is 221B. Knock on the door and a woman will open it. Just ask for Sherlock Holmes and you'll be all set. Have fun!"

Moriarty gave me a rough shove towards a flight of rickety wooden stairs. I followed his instructions and found myself on Baker Street. Why was I suddenly being allowed so much freedom? In my prison, I wasn't allowed to even walk to the loo by myself. I suddenly noticed something that made my stomach clench. A glowing red dot was dancing across the front of the white coat I had been given. Moriarty had been right: I was being watched. And apparently, if his orders we not carried out, I was going to be shot and blown up all at the same time.

I reached 221B and rang. An older woman answered the door after a few minutes. In a timid voice, I asked, "Is this were Sherlock Holmes lives?"

The woman's eyes filled with pity. "You poor dear. You're shaking so! Must be a terrible thing that's happened to you. Sherlock Holmes is just the man for you. Come along, love." She put a comforting arm round my shoulders and led me inside the foyer. "I'm Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock thinks I'm his housekeeper but I'm just the landlady. What's your name, then?"

I faltered. Had Moriarty meant for me to use my true name? "P-Poppy Lewis," I stuttered. To tell the turth, I was terrified of that whole business. What with the possibility of me saying the wrong thing and getting blown up.

Mrs. Hudson patted my shoulder and led me up two flights of stairs. "Sherlock, love," she called as we lighted upon the top of the landing.

"What is it Mrs. Hudson?" replied a male's deep voice from an open doorway. It was dripping with irritation.

"There's a young woman here to see you." She led me over the thresh-hold and I found myself gazing at the back of the man I had yearned, yet now dreaded, to meet.

"Mr. Holmes?"


	3. Chapter 3

**- This particular chapter has not been edited yet so the content is subject to change slightly -**

**DISCLAIMER**

I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Watson, Mrs. Hudson, or Jim Moriarty. These characters belong to BBC (in part) and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Chapter Three - Keep Talking**

"Sherlock..."

"Yes, I heard, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock turned from the window to face me. My heart fluttered shamelessly as two swirling pools of blue-green swept over my form until decidedly focusing on my face.

He wasn't exactly as I had imagined him to look like. Even the tone of his voice was something I could never had concocted in my mind. Don't get me wrong - he was beautiful in every sense of the word. It was just that my "mind-Sherlock" was, happily, different.

I watched almost in a daze as he thanked Mrs. Hudon for bringing me up. She retreated down the stairs, leaving me alone with Sherlock. A lovely crown of dark curls graced his head, which contrasted sharply with the pale tone of his skin. He said something to me but I didn't hear him; I was too busy watching his lips.

The detective cleared his throat and I blinked as if awakening from a pleasant dream. "Yes?"

"Would you care to take a seat, Miss...?" he asked, motioning to a faded red armchair by the hearth.

"Lewis." I crossed over to the chair and took a seat. A lively fire danced in the hearth, snapping and crackling cheerily.

Sherlock took a seat in a leather armchair across from me. "Miss Lewis, please start from the beginning. And do try not to make it boring." He pressed his fingers together and waited.

"Right." I tried to suppress my fanciful thoughts. If I was going to survive Moriarty's snipers, I would have to act professional. No doubt Moriarty had implanted some sort of listening device on my person and I wasn't overly anxious to disappoint him. "You see, Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock," he corrected in his chocolatey voice.

It was my turn to clear my throat. "Sherlock," I began again, "I am having a bit of difficulty with the police. Yesterday, I got back from university on holiday. When I came in the house, my mum was lying, dead, on the kitchen floor. There were no obvious signs of violence except the appearance of five circular bruises on her face. She had written a note and, at first glance, it sounded like she had committed suicide.

"I called the police and after looking about the house, they found my dad in his room. He was dead as well. My dad had the same bruising on his face. There was an absence of blood and weaponry but there were obvious signs of struggle about the house. After reading Mum's note, the Detective Inspector deemed the case to be suicide or possible homicide. But my dad had been bedridden for a year. There was no way he could have attacked Mum in the kitchen. And there was no reason for the both of them to commit suicide; they never had a depressed day in their lives."

"You think they were murdered," Sherlock interjected. It wasn't a question, but a statement.

At this point, I squeezed out a tear and nodded. I realized, with repulsion, that the story had become almost second-nature to me. The tears no longer came freely and I didn't stammer through the words, hurt in my voice. No, due to my "practice" the story of my parents' murder was but another thing to prevent my death.

"The police won't listen to me." I tried to insert more feeling into my voice. "They keep assuring me it was a suicide even though I questioned them as to how they killed themselves. Mary Watson told me about you after I explained what had happened."

Sherlock leaned back into the armchair. He studied me for what seemed like half an hour. "Anything else?" he asked.

I bit my lip and said, "Just as I was turning into the street, someone with a blocked number called my mobile. The man on the other line told me that he had information on my parents' deaths. When I asked him who he was, he only said to meet him at the End Cinema on Hoe Street, Walthamstow at midnight."

"Cliché," he murmured.

"What?"

"Cliché," he repeated. "The phone call, the location, and the time is cliché. It's most likely a trap for you. In fact, I know it is. You'll probably want to bring a weapon of sorts when you go." He paused briefly. "Now, tell me, did your parents ever have a significant argument with anyone?"

To his question, I answered truthfully."No, no one ever had a row with them. I mean, not that I know of. They paid the rent on time and were working on paying back their debts. Mum was a teller at the Standard Charter. Dad hadn't left the house due to his illness. I don't see any reason for them to be murdered. But I know they didn't commit suicide."

"You want me to find your parents' murderer and prove the police wrong."

"I want you to help me figure out why they were murdered and who murdered them," I said a bit sternly. The way Sherlock had phrased it, this whole thing sounded like nothing but redemption for childish pride.

For I brief moment, the two of us were silent. Only the snapping of the hearth-fire sounded in the quiet. I was suddenly disgusted with myself that I feared death more than the telling the truth. If bombs were not pressed against my limbs, I would have told Sherlock all. But I feared death too much. Unless...

If I could find the listening device Moriarty had most likely placed one me, remove the bombs, and move from the view of the two windows in the room, I could tell Sherlock everything. How would I go about conducting such a feat, though?

I ripped off my mittens and began running my fingers through the faux fur of the coat. There was no way Moriarty had given me a coat to protect me from the cold. The listening device had to be amongst the fur. My fingers brushed against a hard, circular object in the collar. Glancing down, I saw a miniature white speaker embedded in the white fur.

Sherlock was watching me impassively. I offered an apologetic smile but his angular features remained expressionless.

On the small table beside the armchair lay several pens and a couple newspapers. Perfect. I grabbed a red pen and wrote, 'Keep talking. Please? It isn't safe for me to talk freely yet. Could you close the blinds?' Sherlock glanced at the written words from his position.

"I knew as much," he stated. He stood and lowered the blinds of the window behind him with lazy motions.

I glared at him. 'Don't start,' I hurriedly scribbled. From John's stories I knew he was about to launch into a full-fledged deduction about me whether it was safe or not. 'Talk about something related to my case.' He returned to his chair and read what I had written.

Slightly annoyed, Sherlock said, "If you are going to meet up with the blocked caller tonight. I would advise you take along either a weapon or a companion. Preferably both."

"What makes you think I need a companion?" I slipped off the coat. Pulling off my boots, I started to unwrap the bandages.

"Miss Lewis, judging by your lack of muscle, you could hardly withstand assault, much less escape. You could fight for a while, but you are simply not strong enough."

"Well, why don't you come with me?" Really, I spoke in a sarcastic tone. But Sherlock took me seriously.

"Fine, I will." He readjusted himself in the armchair and watched as I placed a bomb on the floor. "Frankly, I am intrigued by your case."

I blinked at him. I knew he wasn't referring to my parents' murder but rather the actions I was performing at that moment. 'Turn around. Or close your eyes,' I wrote on the newspaper. The only way I was going to be able to remove the bandages around my torso and arm would be to remove my shirt. Sherlock was extremely beautiful but I wasn't exactly keen on stripping in front of him.

He frowned and shut his eyes. Quickly, I pulled off my shirt and began work on the remaining bandaging.

"So you will take the case?" I asked. I set the second bomb by the first.

"Yes. I suppose."

The third bomb was set by the second and I replaced my shirt. Leaning forward, I tapped him on the knee. He opened his eyes. I got up, moved to the space between the windows, and motioned him to follow.

"Sherlock, listen, I-" I whispered. But he finished my sentence:

"Have been kidnapped. Yes, I know." My breathing hitched slightly as he leaned forward. "The slight bruising on your wrists and face; the lingering scent of chloroform; the extremely pallid shade of your skin and the fact your pupils constrict every time you catch a sunbeam. You aren't used to sunlight, therefore you haven't been outside or have been in a room without windows for at least three weeks. Accompanying the fading bruises on your wrists are scars which tell of severe rope burn - your hands were bound. The bruises on your face were caused by a forceful hands pressing something to your nose and mouth. By the faint stench of chloroform, it was a cloth drenched in the stuff.

"Not only was there one-way speaker hidden in the collar of your coat, but your eyes kept involuntarily returning to the window. That means you are being forced to talk to me on the threat of death, judging by the bombs hidden in your bandages and the possible snipers out the window. Tell me, Miss Lewis: your first name wouldn't happen to be Poppy, would it?"

I was shocked. Completely shocked. His deduction about me was perfectly correct. In his stories, John had explained about Sherlock's uncanny ability to deduce a man's occupation and purpose simply by his tie or the mud on his shoes. It was so much more amazing in person, though. The smoothness of his words; the calmness of his rich voice as he explained it all as if it was the simplest task in the world to identify clues regarding your life and expound upon them. An unnerving chill creeped up your spine the longer he went on until he finished. Then a warm sort of tingling overlapped the chill and you were astounded and shocked by his brilliance.

"Yes," I squeaked. "I'm Poppy. But how did-"

"John told me," he answered. "When he got out of intensive care at St. Bartholomew's, he told me about you."

John? "H-he's alive? Are you joking?" I said, choking on my words.

Sherlock adjusted his blazer and said, "I never joke, Miss Lewis. John is very much alive." He then whipped out a mobile and started to text someone.

My shock slowly dissolved into anger. Moriarty had lied to me. Well, of course he had lied! How could I have been so stupid as to believe him? He was a bloody criminal! Still, it was a painful realization. I thought John was dead; a dear friend who had been shot down in front of me. Having Sherlock tell me he was alive was exhilarating. Yet it bred a black hatred towards Moriarty for lying  
to me in such a way that would banish all ideas of seeking out John's help while in the presence of Sherlock. It was truly despicable, but I should have expected nothing less from a madman.

Taking a shaky breath, I looked down at Sherlock's phone. He was texting John to come to 221B Baker Street.

"He's coming here?" I exclaimed.

Sherlock pursed his lips as if annoyed and said, "No need to shout; I'm right here."

My cheeks grew hot. I whispered, "Sorry."

Replacing his phone back in his pocket, Sherlock glanced at the bombs on the floor behind him. "It is Moriarty, isn't it?" he asked abruptly.

I nodded. His features suddenly grew grim and his gaze became icy. "All that I said was true, you know. He wants me to trap you somehow by telling that lie. But you see, it really wasn't a lie. He killed my parents so that it would make it more...believable." Tears began to form in the corners of my eyes, but I quickly dashed them away. I would not allow Sherlock to see me as weak. "I don't know why he chose me. Couldn't he have threatened an actress or something? Why me?"

"He's bored," Sherlock replied dryly.

"Bored?" I repeated. Moriarty was more insane than I had previously believed.

"Every brilliant mind gets bored."

There was a ring at the door followed by the sound of Mrs. Hudson answering the door. The voice that travelled up the stairwell produced so much joy that my sorrow and horror was momentarily replaced. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. I tilted my head to see past Sherlock's shoulder as John appeared at the door.

"What is it, Sherlock? I have-" he began. His annoyed appearance was transformed to a surprised look when he saw me. "Poppy?"

An undignified sound escaped my lips as I pushed past Sherlock. It is an indescribable feeling to see someone you thought was dead. Even if that person is not a blood-relative. John was one of my best friends, even though he had a good ten years on me.

John caught me in a tight embrace. "Are you okay, Poppy? Are you hurt? How did you get here?"

"I'm okay, John, really," I assured him. We pulled away from one another and he looked over me with the eyes of a doctor.

"You've been eating?" he asked, noting my frame. I had no doubt gained a little weight from lack of vitamin D, but Mum had always nagged me about being too skinny, so now, I supposed, I was a healthy weight.

I nodded. "I never had breakfast, but I always got supper and dinner. Plus, I haven't had sunlight for three weeks. Weren't you the one who told me lack of vitamin D causes weight gain? I'd say it is an improvement, don't you?" I said. "But what about you? Are you alright? Moriarty told me you were..." The dreaded word I had dwelt on for so long refused to leave my mouth.

"Moriarty?" John questioned. His relief at seeing me alive vanished and was replaced by a mixture of horror and anger. He glanced at Sherlock who stood silently behind me.

"Answer my questions first, John." I tried to sound stern. For three weeks I had been silently mourning his death - I deserved an answer as to his well-being.

Absentmindedly, he said, "I'm fine, Poppy. The bullet caused some internal bleeding, but some passersby called an ambulance and I'm healed now. Frankly, I'm not surprised if Moriarty arranged for a lack of people on that street so no one could hear your screams. What did he do to you?" His tone was full of genuine concern. "Answer me truthfully."

My eyes shifted to study the silver zipper of his leather jacket. "His henchmen put me in a crate. I don't know why - inconspicuous transport maybe. Since they practically threw me in there, and because they turned the crate so much, three of my ribs and my left humerus was broken. My ankle was sprained as well. Those injuries were hardly his fault, though-"

John interrupted me with a severe undertone, "Poppy, don't ever think you have to defend him. He's a criminal mastermind who wouldn't hesitate to torture you just for the fun of it. Moriarty is psychotic; the things he does are inexcusable."

With mild disgust, I realized he was right. Why was I trying to defend Moriarty? He had kidnapped me for goodness' sake!  
"Sherlock, how did you find her?" John asked. He took me gently by the arm and turned me about so we both faced the consulting detective.

"I didn't. She came here on threat of explosion." He motioned to the bombs on the floor. "And there are snipers trained a the windows. Moriarty means to entrap me using her as bait."

"Bait? I'm not bait," I said incredulously. "Moriarty is using me to trick you; not as bait. I would guess the simple aspect of mystery is the bait."

Sherlock studied my face for a moment before replying, "Hardly."

"Explain what you mean, Sherlock" John said patiently.

"We can't harbor you here forever," he said, addressing me. "Moriarty will find a way to retrieve you. When he does, he will hide you in plain sight, threatening me that he will kill you if I don't come to your rescue. John, being the sympathetic idiot he is-"

"Oh, thanks," John muttered.

"-will not stop pestering me until we attempt to aid you. Thus, Moriarty will trap me and you have become the bait. In fact, you are the bait at this very moment. Admittedly, your story combined with Moriarty's reasons are quite intriguing."

My brows furrowed and I said, "I'm clever enough to evade Moriarty for a bit. There's no need to shelter me." Honestly, I didn't want to cause either Sherlock or John any harm by my staying with them.

Grimly, Sherlock countered, "No one can evade his snipers for very long."

John said, "It would be best if you stayed here for a while."

"But what about my mum and dad? They're dead! I can't just hide while their killer prances about. You can get out of his trap, Sherlock," I pleaded, "Please? Won't you try to catch him?"

"I can't simply catch him. He is the greatest criminal this world has ever known. With a few words he can collapse whole economies and tarnish the face of British politics. His motives are never straightforward; he always has a hidden motive. Capturing him will never happen unless he wants to be caught."

I was left silent by Sherlock's words. Was Moriarty _that_ powerful?

John cleared his throat in the silence that followed and asked, "Would you like some tea, Poppy?"

"Sure," I replied, my eyes not leaving Sherlock's face. When John disappeared into the kitchen, I said, "How come I have never heard of Moriarty before now? Amongst all the crime that is happening in this day and age, I would think his name would come up somewhere."

Sherlock crossed back over to the leather armchair. He sat down and studied the bombs with a careful eye. "There are plenty of people to do his dirty work for him. Anyone can be bought for the right price."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed from the kitchen. "Tongues? In the mugs? Really?"

"Experiment," he replied calmly. "Use the china."

I glanced into the kitchen to see John fumbling through a cupboard and muttering, exasperated. "John?"

"Hmm?"

Hesitantly, I asked, "Just wondering, but did you look for me?"

He pulled his head out of the cupboard. "Of course I did. Sherlock would have helped if he hadn't been occupied with an assassination case in Norfolk." John cast a glare towards his previous flatmate.

Nodding, I allowed my gaze to wander about the room. A narrow couch was pushed up against the wall to my left, strewn with newspapers and books. The same was the case with a low coffee table barely visible for the precarious stacks of reference material. Inwardly, I sighed at the mess. Bachelors. They needed help.

To my right, a rectangular mirror hung over the cluttered mantle, flanked by two bookcases stuffed with books. I caught a glimpse of my face through the papers and photos taped to the mirror. Dad had said my eyes were like blue hydrangeas in a summer haze - he always was one for poetic prose. Now, the color of my eyes was washed out and sickly, hardly the color of summer flowers. My curly golden brown hair presently hung limply by a extremely ashen face lack of any sort of makeup. Granted, I had gained a healthy amount of weight that softened the sharp corners of my features, but overall, I looked like a sleep-deprived hospital patient.

Suddenly overly concious about my appearance in the presence of the seemingly perfect Sherlock Holmes, I turned towards the teetering stacks of newspapers by the coffee table. One headline in particular caught my eye: Jewel Thief Escapes With Duchess's Diamonds. Since I worked as a reporter for a newspaper, these types of things didn't surprise me very much. But the picture below the headline sparked my interest. It was a rushed snapshot of an older man running from the police. It was the same man who had delivered my meals when I was imprisoned.

"Does Moriarty arrange all the crimes in London?" I asked Sherlock. "Or do all the criminals work for him?"

"Both," he said from the other side of the room.

I made a move to retrieve the newspaper out of curiosity but instantly regretted my actions. An uncovered window shed light on that section of the room, through which I was suddenly visible to Moriarty's snipers. When I entered the view of the window, the sound of shattering glass erupted in the quiet.

John bounded into the room and Sherlock abruptly stood. I looked down to see blood seeping through the fabric of my shirt. Adrenaline was immediately pumped through my veins to staunch the pain as I doubled over. John rushed to my side, gently helping me to the faded red armchair.

"Poppy. Poppy, look at me."

Gasping through the acute pain, I searched for John's face. It was blurred and bizarrely contorted. I grasped at the wound, feeling the warm blood stain my hands. Tears trailed down my cheeks. Both John and Sherlock spoke to me but I was fading. _No._ I was not going to be sucked into that inky blackness of unconsciousness for the third time. That darkness was a dangerous escape from the pain, one that I was unsure I would stir from. I had to stay awake.

I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on banishing the pain and initial shock. When I opened my eyes, the two figures before me were a bit clearer and their voices sharper.

"No, John. Moriarty could easily extract her from the hospital. Can't you perform any necessary procedures here? Tell me what you need."

"Hot water, strips of clean cloth, forceps, and some medicine to dull the pain. But you don't have those last two items, Sherlock. We'll have to take her to the hospital. She might have a punctured lung."

"Alcohol will work just as well as any pain medication. And I do have some forceps; I used them in an experiment."

Sherlock disappeared from my still-blurred vision.

"John...?" I choked.

"Shhh, Poppy. Don't talk. Come on, let's get you to the bedroom," he said. I tried to stand, but even with his aid, I lurched on my feet. So he lifted me up and carried me down a narrow hall that ended at a bedroom.

The agony of the bullet wound was beginning to overtake the adrenaline-rush. Unconsciousness was starting to look very appealing. I quickly expelled the thought from my mind and strove to stay alert.

John laid me on a large, unmade bed. My hands clutched at the wound as a bolt of pain flashed through my body and a cry fled my lips.

"You're going to be alright, Poppy," John comforted. He repeated this expression several times until it became a hazy string of meaningless words in my ears. It was simply a phrase one repeated to the wounded or dying to assuage the fear of Death's shadow.

A brown bottle popped into my line of sight. Squinting through the fog of extreme discomfort, I saw that it was beer.

"No," I said as firmly as the pain would allow. I had never touched the vile drink in all of twenty years and I wasn't about to start now. "I...I'm not going...to...drink...that."

"Poppy, it's the best we can do. We have to reduce your feeling if John is going to get the bullet out." Sherlock's voice, surprisingly much more calming than my friend's familiar voice.

John placed several down pillows behind my head so that it would be easier for me to swallow. Pushing him aside, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and cradled my chin while he held the beer to my lips. The horrid liquid slithered down my throat, burning my stomach. It rose back up to my mouth but Sherlock pushed it down with more beer. Before I knew it, I had consumed half of the bottle.

The alcohol instantly deaded the pain little. My head buzzed and my vision swam. _So this is what it feels like to be drunk,_ I thought bleakly.

Sherlock released my chin and removed the bottle from my lips. "That wasn't that bad, was it?" he said, smiling slightly.

Words slipped out before I could check them: "That was lovely. Brilliant, actually. Is there any more left?" I hardly made sense, but the alcohol prevented me from doing that.

It suddenly seemed as if I had been plunged beneath the ocean's waves. Everything was garbled and distorted. I felt lightheaded and rather relaxed.

John started on the job of extracting the bullet from my mid-torso area. My shirt was removed but I scarcely noticed; the beer was talking through and to me, saying how sleepy I was and how lovely Sherlock looked. I'm sure I said some things I would regret later.

Not very long afterwards, soft sheets were pulled over me and whispered words encouraging me to sleep drifted about my head. Drowsiness overtook me and I soon succumbed to the welcoming blackness. Throughout the shadowy gloom of sleep there danced images of Moriarty, guns and bullets, blood, and Sherlock, all blended into a confused jumble.


End file.
